


Sixteen and a Half Months

by emmagrant01



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Series 3, Sherlock Mini-Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:05:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/emmagrant01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world thinks Sherlock Holmes is dead, but Molly Hooper is one of the few who knows the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixteen and a Half Months

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sherlock Mini-Bang, and finished just under the wire. Huge thanks to my incredibly patient partner [Bergamoth](http://bergamoth.tumblr.com), whose art for this fic appears in the text.
> 
> This will only matter for the next 24 hours, but this fic contains **mild spoilers** for series 3 of Sherlock -- though there's nothing that hasn’t been in a trailer or officially released by the BBC.

_June, 2012_

 

Molly’s fingers fumbled with the keys. It took two tries to get the door of her flat open, and once inside she leaned back against the cold wooden door and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath.

Tea. She needed tea, as quickly as possible.

The fluorescent light in the kitchen cast a greenish pall over the countertops as her hands worked on muscle memory alone: fill the kettle, plug it in, switch it on. Tea bags in the cannister, cups from the rack by the sink where they’d been left to dry. She paused at that and turned to look back at the sofa. It was empty. Not that she’d expected anyone to be there, but still.

Toby meowed and wound around her legs in greeting. She reached down to scratch behind his ears.

It would be a moment before the water boiled, and these fancy trousers felt stiff, uncomfortable. It wasn’t the sort of thing she usually wore, after all. She rounded the corner to the flat’s single bedroom and flicked on the light, and nearly cried out in surprise: Lying in the precise center of her bed was Sherlock Holmes, hands folded on his abdomen in the pose of a corpse, and eyes wide open.

“God, Sherlock, you gave me a fright. How did you—?”

“Picked the lock. Ridiculously simple, really. You ought to have it changed, considering the neighborhood.” He continued to stare up at the ceiling, apparently unaffected by the sudden increase in light.

Molly swallowed down a wave of irritation. “Yes, fine, I’ll look into it. Right.” She turned to leave the room, but then remembered why she’d come in in the first place. She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out comfortable jeans and a worn jumper, and stepped into the bathroom to change.

He was in the exact same position when she emerged again, and she stood next to the bed for a moment, uncertain whether to ask him to leave or invite him into the other room for a cup of tea. Neither option seemed particularly appealing.

The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. Right, tea. She rounded the corner and poured the water into a single mug, dipped in a tea bag. She pressed her lips together and then poured a second cup. He took sugar, she recalled. It was an odd counterpoint to his personality, not what one might expect.

She heard movement in the sitting room behind her, but she didn’t turn around until the tea was ready. She handed him a cup and settled in the squashy chair opposite the sofa. He took the tea without so much as a nod of thanks. Typical.

“Well, aren’t you going to ask how it went?”

He lowered his cup and gave her a sharp look. “How what went?”

She looked away in an attempt to mask her exasperation. “The funeral, Sherlock.”

“Oh, that. Don’t have to.”

“Why?”  Her eyes narrowed. “Wait, don’t tell me you were _there_.”

“Of course I was. I could hardly miss such an opportunity.”

“You could have been spotted! And after everything, all of this—” She took a sip of tea and swallowed, hard. She’d forged documents. She’d lied to her superiors. She’d done things that were blatantly illegal, and for him to take such a risk — she clenched her jaw. Had she really expected it to be any different? A single moment of earnest affection, a glimpse of something she’d always hoped for and never really expected, and she’d melted instantly. Like an idiot. He’d probably put on a act and hadn’t meant a word of it.

“No one saw me. Well, no one other than Mycroft, but he already knows, so that doesn’t matter.”

“So you saw, then? You saw Mrs. Hudson and John and Greg and all of them.”

“Yes, of course. I was surprised Anderson showed up, I must admit. And that he sobbed quite so violently.” He wrinkled his nose, as if the very idea of someone crying over him was distasteful.

“You’ve no idea how much this is hurting them, have you?”

“It’s for their own good.”

“What about my good, then? I have to look them in the eye and pretend I don’t know.” He gave her a sharp look and she sighed. “I didn’t mean… I was happy to help, of course. You know I was.”

Sherlock set the cup on the sofa table and stood. “At this moment, a very select number of people know of my circumstances. Do you wish to continue to be one of them?” 

She looked up at him. The expression on his face was gentle, thoughtful. She should say no, put this all behind her and not get herself into any more difficulty. God only knew what would happen if he were caught. She supposed she should count herself lucky that she hadn’t been in the sights of one of those snipers.  He wouldn’t put her in danger without telling her — would he?

She frowned: that sounded ridiculously naive even inside her own head.

“Yes, of course. If I can help you, I will. I always have done, you know.”

A small smile formed on his lips. “I know.”

“Where are you going? Well, I mean, if you can tell me. No, I take it back, don’t tell me. I don’t think I should know.”

“You’re quite correct. I’ll be in touch.” With that he plucked his trademark coat and scarf from the rack by the door — and honestly, how had she missed it before? — and swept out the door.

Molly leaned back in her chair and raised the cup to her lips. What had she got herself into? 

*****

 

_August, 2012_

It was a beautiful late summer day, the sort that always made her feel wistful about her youth and the promise of a new school term — new lessons, new teachers, maybe even new friends. New beginnings were so much harder to come by as an adult.

She shifted the shopping bags into one hand and fumbled in her purse for her keys. She didn’t usually buy so much at once, but she’d been invited to a dinner party on Saturday night and had offered to bring something for pudding. Searching the internet for recipes that sounded both delicious and simple to prepare had been more fun than she’d anticipated, and she’d finally settled on a chocolate tart. She opened the outside door and trudged up the stairs.

She should cook more often. It was easy to fall into a rut of preparing simple meals when one lived alone, but she ought to experiment more. She’d at least have to do something with all of this flour. Her mother had a wonderful recipe for scones, and she’d probably be delighted to share something so pleasantly homey with her usually scientifically-minded daughter.

She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open with her foot, and then gasped in surprise.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting on her sofa, typing intently on a laptop.

Her heart pounded in her chest, but she’d managed not to drop her shopping, at least. She let the door close behind her and took the bags to the kitchen before coming back to glare at him.

“What are you doing here?” That was _her_ laptop, actually.

He didn’t look up — hadn’t looked up at all since she’d come in, in fact. “Nice to see you again. The new tea is an improvement, by the way.”

“It was on special at Tesco’s. You aren’t doing anything illegal on my computer, are you?”

“Nothing that will be traced back to you.”

She sat opposite him. “That’s not terribly reassuring. How did you get in here?”

He raised an eyebrow at the computer screen. “How do you think?”

“I changed the locks.”

“The idea was to get a more secure model, not just to swap out one cheap lock for another. Honestly, Molly, I’d expected more of you.”

“Yes, well…” She paused and pressed her lips together before continuing. “I wasn’t expecting to see you in London again so soon.”

“Clearly.”

She sighed and shifted her weight on the chair. “Sherlock, you can’t keep breaking into my flat like this. Someone will see you and think you’re… well, breaking in. You’ll get arrested.”

“It’s actually more likely that one of your neighbors would offer to help.”

“If you’re going to make a habit of it, I’ll give you a key. I got a spare for my Mum, but I might as well give it to you instead.” She looked up to see him staring back at her over the top of the computer. He looked as if he weren’t sure he’d heard her correctly. 

“That would be… yes, thanks.”

She couldn’t help a small smile. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

He cleared his throat and looked back at the screen. The tapping resumed. “I won’t put you out for long. I needed the wifi and I was in the area.”

“And my locks are rather feeble, apparently.”

“It’s a wonder you’ve not been robbed.”

She stood and crossed to the kitchen. “I’m going to put the kettle on. Would you like another?”

“I would.”

She opened a drawer and pulled out a small brown envelope. Her fingers pressed against the smooth surface of the paper, and she frowned. It was empty. She turned to look at him.

Without looking away from the screen, he slipped one hand into his pocket and pulled it out again, then held it up. Between his fingers was a shiny new key.

Molly shook her head, incredulous. “You complete… _arse_.”

Sherlock grinned and pocketed the key again. Molly filled the kettle, swearing under her breath. What had she ever seen in Sherlock Bloody Holmes? _Honestly_.

*****

 

_November, 2012_

Molly had just curled up on the sofa with a glass of fruity red wine and a good book when the door of her flat flew open. As if that hadn’t been startling enough, the state of the man standing in her doorway made her jump to her feet and reach for her mobile. She’d already dialed the first 9 before she recognized him: one eye was purpled and swollen shut, and his face was bloodied and bruised, and she’d never seen Sherlock Holmes looking so horrible in her life.

She leapt to her feet and closed the door, and guided him to the sofa.

“God, you look… what happened?”

He winced as he settled back against the cushions, and didn’t reply.

“Yes, right, no need to explain. I’ll just… I’ll get something. Stay here. Don’t move.”

She ran to the bathroom and rummaged under the sink for the first aid kit she kept there, her heart pounding nearly in her ears.  She settled next to him and used a wet flannel to clean the blood and grime from his face as carefully as she could. Several bruises were forming and there a few shallow cuts that didn’t appear to need stitches, and his eye was going to need some ice — but otherwise he seemed to be better off than he’d first looked. She stood and went to the freezer, where she found a bag of peas to press to his black eye.

“I’m sure John had to patch you up for worse than this,” she said as she examined his head for any signs of injury.

“Yeah.” He exhaled, and she didn’t hear any gurgling from his chest. Still, better to be safe than sorry.

“Let’s get this coat off you. Can you stand?”

He grimaced as he pushed to his feet, and she half-expected to see a bullethole in his chest. Fortunately, he seemed only to be bruised. She pressed her hands against strategic points on his abdomen, and he didn’t respond with much more than an occasional wince.

“You know you should probably go to A&E.”

“And you know that I can’t do that. You’ve enough medical training to handle it.”

“If you were a corpse, yes.”

He snorted at that and pressed the bag of peas against his face again. “I’m legally dead. Does that suffice?”

“Not unless you want a post-mortem. Sit, I’ll put the kettle on.”

He sat back on the sofa with a groan, and she turned to the kitchen. Her hands shook as she filled the kettle, so badly that she had to stop and press them against her face for a moment. God, was this really what John had to deal with? She wasn’t sure she could bear it on a regular basis.

She dropped her hands and plugged the kettle into the socket. Cups, tea bags, sugar, wait, _breathe_.

Three minutes later she sat next to him on the sofa and handed him a cup. He nodded his thanks and held it between his hands, as if warming them.

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking you what happened?”

He raised the cup to his lips and didn’t reply.

“Right, probably for the best. But if there’s anything I need to know about your injuries and how you… acquired them, just…” She sighed. “Never mind.”

They were both silent for nearly a minute. The television, forgotten in the excitement of the last few minutes, suddenly seemed blaringly loud. She reached for the remote control and muted the volume. 

“If you need a place to stay for a few days, you’re welcome to… I mean, you’ve probably got plans or somewhere else to go, but if you haven’t, you can stay here. I know the sofa’s not the best, and it’s probably not big enough for you, but if you need it, it’s yours.”

She turned to look at him, and he nodded, his eyes still fixed on the television screen.

“All right, good. I’ll just fetch you some blankets and a pillow, then.”  She returned a few minutes later with probably twice as many blankets as he needed, but better too many than too few. His eyes were already closed and his head flopped back against the top of the sofa. He looked completely exhausted.

She had no idea what he’d been doing or why he was doing it. If she needed to know, she assumed he’d tell her. Probably.

Well, probably not. Sherlock had always been like that. God only knew why’d she’d ever had a crush on him.

She turned and walked to her bedroom, but just before she closed the door behind her, she heard a soft voice say, “Thank you.”

*****

 

_January, 2013_

The knock on her door startled her awake. She sat straight up in bed and turned to look at the clock on her bedside table. Two in the morning. _God._

She staggered to the door and opened it. Sure enough, Sherlock Holmes was standing in the corridor, his cheeks and nose red from the chill. He pushed past her without waiting to be invited in.

She groaned. “What’s the point of giving you a key if you’re not going to use it in the middle of the night?”

“You really ought to be more cautious at this hour, Molly. I could have been a thief, or worse, just knocking on random doors and waiting for defenseless young women to open up.”

“You sound like my mother. And besides, I’m hardly defenseless.” She held up the small cannister of pepper spray she kept on the table next to the door, just in case.

“It’s possible to train oneself to be immune to pepper spray.” He took off his coat and hung it on the hook by the door, right next to her own. “You really ought to have a proper weapon.”

“Well, we can’t all be like John, now can we?” He gave her a sharp look, and she winced. “Sorry, that wasn’t… I didn’t mean…” She closed her eyes and tried again. “I’d offer you tea, but it’s the middle of the night.”

“Usually the best possible time for tea, but on this occasion it’s not quite what I was hoping for.” He sniffled, and she realized his voice sounded off.

“Are you ill?”

He groaned and settled on the sofa. “I’m utterly miserable. The flu, I think.”

“And your first thought was to come straight here. How touching.” Surely she had some hand disinfectant somewhere.

“Just keep your distance and you’ll be fine. I’ll confine myself to the sofa, the bathroom, and the kitchen for a few days, and the worst of it will be over.”

“Oh, just most of the flat, then.”

“Perhaps it would be best if you ate out for a bit.” He gave her a tight smile and took off his shoes, then swung his legs up onto the sofa.

She sighed. “Fine, just… don’t touch any more surfaces than necessary.”  She turned to fetch the extra blankets. “Or my laptop!”

He was already asleep when she returned. She covered him with a blanket and set a box of tissues on the sofa table, and watched him sleep for a long moment before returning to bed.

*****

Four days later, Molly reached for the box of tissues and blew her nose, and flopped back onto the bed with a miserable whine. And of course, Sherlock had vanished once again.

*****

 

_6 February, 2013_

“Five post-mortems scheduled in _one_ day.” She balanced the mobile on her shoulder and managed to unlock her door and push it open without dropping any of her shopping. “It’s been so busy lately, but of course every time I bring up the subject of hiring on someone to help, no one seems to have time to listen.” She kicked at the door with her foot to close it and lugged all of her shopping to the kitchen.

“ _You_ _’ve got to stand up for yourself more. Now Karen had a problem at work, and she_ —”

Molly set the phone on the countertop and didn’t listen while her mother went on about whatever her perfect sister had done that Molly would never think to do. Karen had the perfect life, as far as Mum was concerned, and unless Molly was actively trying to be more like Karen, Mum was convinced she was doomed to life as a spinster or some such nonsense. It was infuriating beyond belief.

She unpacked her bags and put everything away, and then picked up the phone again.

“— _that handsome bloke that works at Dan_ _’s office. They’d be happy to invite you over for dinner and_ —”

Molly cringed. “Mum, no. I don’t need to be set up.” Especially not with a man who worked at her brother-in-law’s office. “I’m… I’m sort of seeing someone anyway.” As soon as the lie came out of her mouth, she regretted it.

“ _Well, why didn_ _’t you say so? What’s his name? What’s he like?_ ”

Oh, God. She pulled off her coat and went to hang it by the hook on the door, and froze. There hanging on her hook was a very familiar long black coat.

“I really don’t have time to talk about it right now, Mum. Can I ring you in a bit? Bye.” She ended the call without waiting for a goodbye, and whirled around. The main area of the flat was empty.

With more than a touch of trepidation, she walked toward her bedroom door. It was partially closed, and as she drew closer, she could hear a soft, rhythmic sound. She thumbed on the sitting room light and peeked through the door. There was a dark mop of hair on her pillow and her duvet was twisted around a long, lean shape. Toby was curled up against Sherlock’s back, apparently happy to have an unexpected source of warmth this early in the evening.

Molly sighed. If he was ill again, she was going to show him the door. She considered waking him then and there, but when she drew close, the expression on his face was so peaceful that she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She had no idea what sort of life he was living these days, how he was getting by. If he needed a night in a real bed, she supposed it wasn’t too much of a hardship for her to sleep on the sofa, just this once.

 

She heated up M&S lasagna and settled on the sofa to watch telly.

When the alarm on her phone woke her up the next morning, Toby was snuggled against her feet. She stood and stretched, wincing at the ache in her shoulder. She could hardly blame him for preferring the bed, considering. She tip-toed towards her bedroom and opened the door enough to peek inside, but the bed was empty. The pillows had been fluffed and the duvet spread across the mattress, as if no one had been there at all.

***** 

 

_25 February, 2013_

The flat was dark when she opened the door, and she fumbled for the light switch. Only another month or so and it would be light when she came home from work, and she looked forward to it. Spring really couldn’t come quickly enough.

She sat on the couch and ate takeaway and watched television until her eyelids began to droop. It had been a long day and an even longer week, and when she nodded off during one program and woke up watching another, she reckoned it was time to go to bed.

She yawned and stretched, and stripped in the dark before heading to the bathroom to brush her teeth and put her hair into a ponytail. She turned off the bathroom light and made her way to the bed on memory alone. The flat was chilly and her feet were cold on the wooden floor, and she was already looking forward to snuggling into the warmth of her fluffy duvet.

She pulled back a corner of the duvet, but it caught. She squinted in the dim light and tugged again. There was a soft sound like a sigh, followed by a mumbled word, and the duvet was pulled from her hands again. She gasped in surprised before the dark shape resolved into a familiar figure.

Sherlock Holmes was in her bed. _Again_.

She glared at the back of his head and crossed her arms over her chest. Apparently he’d decided that her hospitality included taking over her bed whenever he felt like it, without bothering to ask her first. What if she’d invited someone over? What if her mum had popped in for a visit? How could she possibly explain the presence in her bed of a man whom the world thought dead?

And why the hell had she given him a key, anyway?

She shivered and gritted her teeth. She was tired and cold and, _fuck it_ , it was her bed, wasn’t it? She gave the duvet a good hard tug and slid in beside him. He was sprawled across the center like a wiry cat, and she finally pressed her cold hands into his side and said, “Budge over, will you?”

He mumbled something incoherent in response and rolled onto his side, taking the duvet with him. But at least she had room to lie down now. She sat up and managed to disentangle the duvet from his limbs enough to cover herself, and then turned her back to him and settled in to try to sleep.

His breathing was slow and even, and the bed was warm from where he’d lain. Even now she could feel the heat of his body beneath the duvet. It had been a long time since she’d shared a bed with anyone — for only sleeping, at least — and she’d forgotten how strange it felt to be aware of the space they were each taking up. The bed felt different beneath her body, the tension in the mattress strained by his weight on the opposite side. She shifted into a more comfortable position and closed her eyes, forced her mind to clear.

It would be awkward in the morning, yes, but if he didn’t like it, he didn’t have to climb into her bed without warning.

Toby jumped onto the foot of the bed and walked up her body with his surprisingly pointed cat-feet before settling on her head.  She pushed him off and slid towards the center of the bed to give him a bit of space on the pillow, and her back pressed against Sherlock’s. She froze for a moment, but he didn’t wake or seem to respond in any way. Still, cuddling seemed inappropriate under the circumstances, so she wriggled away a bit more until she’d positioned herself a tolerable and moderately comfortable distance between Toby and Sherlock.

She was probably never going to get to sleep.

The sound of her alarm startled her awake and she reached for it, disoriented. She thumbed it off and glanced at the time: half-six, definitely morning.

With a start, she remembered that she hadn’t gone to bed alone, and she turned her head — but the bed was empty, the sheets long cold. He’d left without a word.

*****

 

_March, 2013_

She was running down a cobblestone street through thick fog, so thick she could scarcely breathe, and she had to get there, had to find a way. Her feet kept slipping and it was as if she wasn’t moving at all. There wasn’t any traction and she realized there was nothing beneath her, no ground, nothing to keep her from falling. The fog cleared and she saw lights below, perhaps the lights of a town. How had she got so high? There was a sound behind her and she tried to turn, but couldn’t get any traction in the air either. The sound was familiar, though, something she’d heard before.

She opened her eyes and the strange dream began to slip away, no matter how hard she concentrated on grasping at the tendrils of it. She heard the sound again, and froze, turned her head. She wasn’t alone. He was facing away from her, but there was no mistaking the dark curls spread across the pillow. 

She pressed a hand to her forehead and groaned. It was weird and slightly uncomfortable and not normal — and didn’t that just sum up everything encounter she’d ever had with Sherlock Holmes?

She sat up in bed and looked down at him, to the pale face pressed against the pillow, features relaxed in sleep. She’d barely spoken to him in months, and yet they’d spent more time in each other’s company than they’d done in the several years previous. He looked young like this, not so unlike the man who’d burst into the morgue one day while she was in the midst of a post-mortem and demanded to see the man’s spleen, “for a case.”

She’d been instantly smitten, and it had taken a long time to get past it, to let go of the idea that he might ever really love anyone. Or rather, that he might ever love _her_.

She settled back under the duvet and stared up at the ceiling. Eventually the rhythmic sound of his breathing lulled her back to sleep, back to dreams that she drifted in and out of without feeling grounded to any of them. Even her alarm seemed a soothing tone when it pulled her out of sleep a few hours later. 

Sherlock was still sound asleep when she emerged from the bathroom, showered and dressed for work. She considered waking him for a moment — God only knew when she’d see him again, and they really ought to have a chat about all of this — but instead she went to the kitchen and made toast and tea for two, and left his portion on the table.

When she returned that evening, her flat was quiet and empty, but the dishes were drying in the rack by the sink, and Toby’s bowls were filled.

Molly couldn’t help but smile at that.

*****

  

_22 March, 2013_

Angela leaned against Molly’s shoulder as the taxi rounded a corner. “We really ought to do this more often. I don’t see enough of you lot, what with us being all grown up these days.”

“I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed it,” Sharon said, grinning from her perch on the cab’s fold-down seat. “I haven’t had a proper girls’ night out in ages.”

“It was fun, wasn’t it? Next time we can skip the uni pub, though.” Molly wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never felt so old in my life!”

“We’re not old,” Angela’s elbow pressed into Molly’s side. “Not yet, anyway. I still think you should’ve given your number to that bloke who kept buying you drinks.”

Molly flushed. “He wasn’t really my type. He kept staring down my shirt.”

“At least he was looking.” Sharon pushed a lock of blonde hair behind one ear. “I don’t think Evan remembers I’ve got boobs these days.”

“Speaking of boobs, mine are killing me.” Angela pressed her hands against her breasts and groaned. “Next time I’m bringing the pump, even if I have to withstand the rude stares of all those drunk teenaged girls in the toilet.”

“I would pay to see that!” Sharon said with a laugh, and then her eyes widened. “To see the looks on their faces, I mean, not—”

“Darling, I’m uncomfortable enough right now that I wouldn’t care who was watching. Anyway, Molly’s the one who needs to get some.” She shot Molly a sly grin. “Maybe he wasn’t Mr. Right, but he could’ve been Mr. Right _Now_.”

Molly laughed and shook her head. “I don’t know if casual sex is my thing.”

“Do it while you can, love. I wish I’d lived it up a bit more when I was single.”

Sharon sighed. “My sex life is horrid, and I haven’t even got the excuse of having a baby taking all of my time. Trust me, Molls — enjoy it while you can. Oh, this is you, isn’t it?”

Molly looked out of the window. “It is.” She handed a tenner to Sharon to cover her part of the fare. “Thanks so much for tonight. We’ll have to do it again soon.”

There was a chorus of yeses and she gave each of her friends a quick hug before stepping out of the taxi. She waved at them as it pulled away.

It had been nice to have a night out and laugh and reminisce with her friends, but she was glad to be home again. The club scene had never really been her thing, even when she was in her early twenties and it was what everyone always wanted to do. She unlocked the door and set her purse on the table just inside.

The man who’d flirted with her all night had been rather fit, and the way he’d looked at her was — well, she could actually do with a bit of that every now and again, couldn’t she? Maybe a relationship was too complicated at this point in her life, but it might be nice every once in a while to have an orgasm without having to check the batteries first.

She considered pouring herself a glass of wine and curling up on the couch with a film, but it was late, and she’d got up early that morning. Bed, then. She walked into her bedroom and flicked on the light, and froze in the doorway. Sherlock was there, the top of his head just peeking out of the duvet.

She sighed and turned the light off again. Just her luck that she had a handsome bloke who kept popping over just to sleep. It was like the opposite of a booty call. Actually, it was like having a second, exceptionally anti-social cat around the place.

She’d grown used to it though, and didn’t think twice about stripping down to her underwear and throwing on an old t-shirt before going to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash the make-up off of her face. He’d likely be gone before she woke up in the morning anyway.

She slid under the covers and tried to settle down, and it was a moment before she realized that something felt different. It was too quiet, and the bed was too still: he was awake.

She sighed and turned onto her side, and he did the same. His eyes were dark and his hair was tousled, and he stared at her with an expression she couldn’t quite identify. It was a strange mix of confusion and sleepiness, and something that nearly approached fondness. She felt an odd twist inside her belly at that thought.

He kept coming back to her flat, when he was sick and when he needed company, or just a warm, safe place to sleep. He needed her. _Her_. And maybe, just maybe, there was another reason he kept climbing into her bed on these nights, sliding into the sheets even when she was sleeping there, and never saying a word.

Even now he was staring at her as if there was something he wanted to say but didn’t quite know how. As if he wanted something… _more._ No, that couldn’t be it — he didn’t want those things, had never been interested in the slightest. And she’d let it go herself a long time ago, because she didn’t matter in that way. But maybe things had changed.

Before she could lose her nerve, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his.

He froze and didn’t respond, and she winced and pulled away. “Oh God, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that.”

He lunged toward her and kissed her, and it was a moment before she worked out how to respond. His mouth was dry and warm, and it was awkward, but not terrible, and she slid a hand up into his hair and closed her eyes.

She was kissing Sherlock. In her _bed_. It was surreal, but God, it felt good, especially when the tip of his tongue slid against hers and his hand cupped her cheek almost tentatively.

That touch was amazing, but it wasn’t enough, and she moved closer to him, smoothed her hand down over his shoulders, over the soft t-shirt he wore, and down until her fingertips found the waistband of his pants, and _oh my God, he_ _’s only got pants on_. She suddenly wanted more, to feel the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress, and she rolled onto her back and pulled him against her as best she could. He understood and followed, and _yes_ , his cock was half-hard and pressing against her thigh and she felt her vulva start to swell at the thought of it. He was here and they were really doing this, and _oh God_ it was incredible.

She didn’t have condoms and doubted he did, but still, they could make this work. She didn’t care how they did it; she just needed more of him, closer, wetter, hotter, _anything_. God, it had been ages since she wanted anyone so badly, and she’d forgotten how intense it could feel. Her hands grasped his arse and pulled his hips hard against hers, and he moaned into her mouth.

“Touch me, please,” she whispered, and he went still for a moment before sliding a hand down her side, fingers just pausing at the hem of her shirt. He seemed not to understand exactly what she was asking for, so she slid out from under him enough to push her knickers down and off, and then took his hand and pressed it between her thighs. He stared down at her, clearly astonished, but then he moved his fingers slowly across the soft skin of her vulva.

She couldn’t help the moan that escaped her lips at that contact. It had been a while, to be certain, but the idea that it was _him_ doing it — her mind was spinning, and she was more aroused than she could remember being with a partner in a long time. His fingers explored gently while he watched her face, and she shifted her hips against his hand, trying to encourage him to apply more pressure.

He finally traced one fingertip around the entrance of her vagina and she whined in frustration. He pressed that finger into her slowly and the expression on his face changed for a moment, almost as if he were surprised.

“More, more, yes,” she said, and he added another finger and stroked in and out again, and _God, yes_. His thumb grazed her clitoris and she gasped and her hips jerked up, and he did it again, but too hard this time. She reached down and held his thumb in place, showing him the right amount of pressure, and _God_ , he learned fast. He repeated the movement, fucking her with his fingers and rubbing small circles around her clit with his thumb while she clenched his t-shirt in one fist and moaned into the other.

 

She was astonishingly close, riding on the edge already, and _fuck_ , this was so much better with another person. She opened her eyes to see him watching her face with such a typically _Sherlock_ expression that it derailed her for a moment. She’d seen that expression directed at her several times over the last few years, and the outcome had never been particularly pleasant.

But this time — she slid a hand under him until she found his half-hard penis and wrapped her fingers around it, and the change in his expression was priceless. She wondered how long it had been since anyone had touched him this way, and who it had been. John? That was the rumor, certainly, and though she found the idea of it intriguing, she doubted it was really true. Maybe it had been the woman who’d died, the one he’d recognized from not-her-face?

His cock was hard beneath her fingers now and she stroked slowly, pulling the foreskin over the head. He pressed his face against her shoulder and groaned, and she stroked harder. His fingers moved erratically now, and she pushed his hand away and turned onto her side in order to focus on him completely. She kissed him and stroked his cock, and his hands clutched at her shirt uselessly.  He moaned into her mouth and his body tensed beneath her, and then she felt a splash of warmth against her belly. She grinned against his lips, unable to stop herself.

He pulled away then and stared up at the ceiling, and Molly’s triumphant smile faded. He blinked once, twice, and looked almost as if he were trying to get his brain back online, but he didn’t look at her or say anything. She swallowed and pressed her lips together, uncertain what to do. She slowly turned onto her back and stared up at the ceiling too, waiting for him to say something, to move, or make a sound — anything. But he didn’t, and the silence stretched out between them. 

Had that been a horrible mistake? Maybe he hadn’t intended for that to happen, and she’d pushed him too hard. Maybe he would regret it, and things would be weird between them from now on. She turned her head to look at him again, and he was still staring blankly at the ceiling.  She winced and looked away. She always ruined everything. Her mother was right. She was going to die all alone because she was a complete idiot about relationships and always, always fucked them up.

She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind, tried to release her tangled thoughts. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him again.

When she awoke a few hours later, she was alone and the sheets beside her were cold. She winced and buried her face under the duvet. Oh, God — what had she done?

*****

 

_29 March, 2013_

She was just settling in to sleep when she heard the key turn in the lock. She froze and listened, waited: There was only one person it could be, and she hadn’t expected to see him again so soon.

A minute later he appeared in the bedroom doorway, face cast in sharp shadows by the harsh light filtering in through the window. He stood there and stared at her as if uncertain, and she sat up and looked back at him. She should say something, but before she could think of anything to say, he stepped into the room and crossed to the foot of her bed. He hesitated a moment more before stripping off his shirt and trousers and removing his shoes, until he stood there in only his underpants.

Her heart pounded in her chest. They should talk about this. She should turn on the lights and put the kettle on, and they should go sit on the sofa and have a serious chat about whether or not it was in their best interests to have sex again. She should; she really _really_ should.

But it was so much easier just to pull the duvet aside for him.

He took a few steps forward and sat on the edge of the bed, perching there almost catlike. Her gaze raked over his nearly-naked body: he was too thin, with a dusting of chest hair and wiry muscles, and his shoulders were slumped, as if he were used to hiding his height. She could see the outline of his penis through his underpants, and the stab of desire she felt caught her by surprise. She looked back up at his eyes, knowing he’d seen her looking, but she didn’t feel self-conscious at all. She was often uncertain of herself in bed with others, not sure how to ask for what she wanted, overly concerned about what men thought when they saw her body with all of its imperfections. But this was Sherlock Holmes, and she couldn’t hide anything from him if she tried. She sat up on her knees and tugged her t-shirt over her head, and tossed it aside.

Despite all the comments he’d made about the size of her breasts, his eyes were drawn to them now. Her nipples tightened in the chilly air and she imagined what it would feel like if he brushed his thumb across one or flicked it with the tip of his tongue, drew it into his mouth and—

He kissed her, softly, almost hesitantly, and she wound her arms around his neck and pressed against him. His skin was warm, and his lips were soft, and they kissed for several minutes, slowly, sweetly. He seemed to be waiting for her to take the lead, and so she did, pulling him back with her onto the bed. She wrapped her thighs around his hips and shifted her pelvis up and _there_ , the perfect angle.

He made a small sound at the contact, and she fell his penis swell against her vulva through two layers of fabric. He pulled out of the kiss and stared down at her, and then shifted his hips a bit, enough to make her smile up at him.

If this was going to become a regular thing, she ought to buy condoms.

It was strange and slightly awkward, and after five minutes she remembered why she hadn’t been terribly enthusiastic about dry-humping as a teenager. She reached down between them and slid one hand into his pants, and stroked his cock until he came, panting against her shoulder. He slumped against her for several moments before shifting to the side and wriggling his fingers into her knickers.

It was good, but it wasn’t quite enough, and she shifted her position a bit. He stopped and looked down at her, expression unreadable, and then sat up. She was ready to protest, but instead he tugged at the elastic of her knickers and pulled them off, and then settled on his belly between her parted thighs.

She grinned down at him and bit her lip, but he didn’t look up at her face. He pressed her thighs further apart and stared down at her vulva for so long that she began to squirm. God, she needed him to touch her — the waiting was making her crazy, but it was hot too, knowing that he was just _looking_ , studying her pussy like it was a clue to be unraveled. She was nearly aching now, and she whined in frustration.  He finally touched her then, traced one fingertip lightly down the edge of her labia, and then pressed that finger into her.  She groaned and let her head fall back against the pillow. A moment later she felt the warmth of his breath and then the tip of his tongue lightly circling her clitoris, and _oh God_ that was fantastic.

His mouth was hot and wet, and his fingers stroked inside her. It was messy and not enough and too much, and not at all the way she usually liked it, but she was so aroused that it didn’t matter. Within minutes she felt the pulse of her orgasm building, and she tangled her hands in his hair and kept his mouth in exactly the spot she needed it, and _oh God, oh God._  He stretched out beside her afterward and stared up at the ceiling with a thoughtful expression, as if he were carefully filing the experience away in his mind palace. She tugged the duvet up over both of them and closed her eyes, still floating in a post-orgasmic haze.

He was gone when she opened her eyes a few hours later, but she didn’t mind. Apparently she was Sherlock Holmes’ booty call, as insane as that sounded.  She curled up on her side and laughed into her pillow. It was completely weird, but it was exciting too.

*****

 

 

 _May 2013_

He showed up twice in the month of April, always in the middle of the night, and always without saying a word. In fact, he hadn’t spoken to her at all since they’d started having sex. Sometimes she was bothered by it, but most of the time she pushed it out of her mind. She hardly expected a relationship with Sherlock Holmes to be anything close to normal. Not that this was a relationship. That would imply talking and spending time together and doing things other than have sex.

She’d bought a box of condoms after the second night, and put them in the top drawer of her bedside table. The next time he’d come to her bed, he’d somehow known they were there without being told. The expression on his face when she sank onto his cock was amazing, and she wondered yet again if he’d done any of this before. He was clearly inexperienced, but he learned quickly, and his responses were beautifully unrestrained — as if he had no reason to be self-conscious or embarrassed. She envied him that.

He was never there in the morning, though. She loved the sex, but it somehow wasn’t quite what she’d always imagined.

*****

 

_5 July, 2013_

It was hot, ridiculously hot for London, even at this late hour. Her flat would be roasting, and she was dreading it, but she’d open the windows and turn on the fans, and it would be tolerable. Her flimsy summer dress was sticking to her skin and these shoes were killing her, but soon she’d be home and she could strip down to her knickers and maybe even take a cool shower, or at least sit in front of the fan with a cold drink.

She opened the door and gasped at the sight that greeted her: Sherlock Holmes was sitting on her sofa with her laptop balanced on one knee, looking as cool as could be despite the temperature in the room.

“How was your date?” He didn’t even look up from the screen.

She gaped at him. “How did you know I was on a date?”

“Saw you leave the building earlier. That dress, the style of your hair and make-up, those shoes—” He glanced archly at her feet.  “—all clearly indicate that you were hoping to impress someone new. Considering the time and day of the week, it was a fairly obvious conclusion.” He looked up at her and pursed his lips. “Nice enough fellow, not particularly good looking, slightly short for your taste, but you enjoyed the conversation. You’re not sure you want to sleep with him, though.”

She closed the door behind her and took off her shoes. “How do you know I didn’t have sex with him in the restaurant toilet?”

He made a sound like a huffy laugh. “You’ve never had sex in a restaurant toilet.”

“True, I haven’t. And you’re right, he was nice. I think I’ll see him again.” 

“Just avoid next Friday, if you please.” His gaze was fixed to the screen again and his fingers flew on the keyboard.

“What’s happening next Friday?”

“Sex with me, of course. Well, I suppose you could see him for an early dinner and still make it back here in time, if you like.”

It was a moment before the words were processed in her brain. “You disappear for two months and then expect that I’ll be happy to have sex with you again, now that it’s convenient for you?”

He stopped typing and frowned, apparently having realized something was amiss. “I… yes.”

She wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she took a deep breath and released it again, then crossed to her bedroom. She opened the windows and took another deep breath of city air, and stared out at the oranges and blues of the darkening sky. He would continue doing this, she realized: he’d pop in and out of her life when it was convenient for him, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. Was this what John had put up with? She closed her eyes and swallowed down a pulse of guilt, and turned around.

Sherlock stood in the middle of her bedroom, unfastening the buttons on his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

He stopped and gave her a long look. “Taking my clothes off.”

“Why?”

“For sex.”

She clenched her jaw and pressed a hand against her forehead, and willed herself to calm down before speaking. “No. We’re not having sex. You can’t just reappear and expect that I’ll still sleep with you after two months. For God’s sake, we haven’t talked about this at all!”

His face was carefully blank, as if he was trying to work out what was happening. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“Look, you’re welcome to sleep on the sofa, all right? But I’m just seeing someone new and I can’t have sex with you while I’m trying to figure that out.”

He pressed his lips together, but said nothing. He nodded and refastened the buttons on his shirt and returned to the sitting room. After a moment, she heard his fingers tapping on the keyboard again. _Her_ keyboard.

She showered and put on a soft cotton t-shirt and slid under the sheet on her bed. It was still hot, but the shower had helped and she felt much better. The light was on in the sitting room, but she didn’t mind. She closed her eyes.

Robert was a fantastic bloke. He wasn’t the best looking man she’d gone out with, and he wasn’t remotely interested in _Doctor Who_ and had laughed dismissively when she’d mentioned _Glee._ But of course, they were still getting to know each other. It had only been a couple of weeks, and these things took time, didn’t they? He’d kissed her tonight and it was weird and strangely sloppy, and she’d immediately thought about the way Sherlock had kissed her, and the way he always followed her lead and had so quickly learned what she liked.

She pulled the pillow over her head. No, she wasn’t going to think about that. Robert was probably fantastic in bed. Maybe he had a huge cock, or something. Maybe he was amazing at oral sex, and would make sure she came three times before he fucked her. Maybe he’d surprise her, and somehow wipe the memory of sex with Sherlock out of her mind forever.

_Oh God._

She threw the pillow aside. He was still tap-tapping at the keyboard. All she had to do was walk in there and give him a look, and he’d come to her bed. He was so close, and _God_ how she wanted him. She’d wanted him for years and now he was on her sofa and willing, and what the hell was she thinking?

Robert was a bit of a pretentious arse, really. And he didn’t like cats, so it probably wouldn’t work in the long run.

Right.

She sat up and stood, and took a fortifying breath. She opened the top drawer of the bedside table and pulled out a condom, and crossed to the doorway.

Sherlock was frowning at the laptop’s screen, apparently lost in thought. She crossed the room and stopped at the edge of the sofa, and tossed the condom package onto the keyboard.  He looked up at her with an expression of confusion so adorable that she almost laughed.

“Don’t say a word,” she said, and he closed the laptop and set it aside. The condom dropped onto the cushion beside him, and he picked it up and closed his fingers around it. She straddled his lap and combed her fingers through his hair, and he tilted his head back, exposing his long pale neck.

“Yes,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper, and she kissed him. His hands slid up under her shirt, the fingers of one still curled around the foil package of the condom, the corner of it just slightly scratching her sensitized skin, and she gasped against his lips.

She wanted him, wanted _this_ , whatever this was. It was fucked up and not normal and so perfect and hot and amazing, and all she wanted right now was to feel him inside her.  She pulled away and reached between them to unfasten his trousers, and they both scrambled to push clothing out of the way. He tore open the condom packet and she rolled it onto his cock and then leaned forward enough to position the head and sink down.

When she looked up at him again, his mouth was open and his eyes were wide, and she didn’t think she’d ever seen anything so erotic in her life. She shifted her hips and fucked him slowly, and his eyes fluttered closed. His hands slipped from her hips and clenched into fists at his sides.

She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his ear. “I want you to fuck me.”

He made a strangled sound and the the world tipped sideways, and she found herself on her back on the sofa. He pressed into her again and stroked fast, too fast for her, but it didn’t matter. She’d never seen him like this, so aroused and open and lost in sensation, and it was incredible to think that she’d brought him to this.

It didn’t take long for him to come, but she didn’t care, loved every second of it. She held him against her as he shuddered and was ready to let him lie there and sweat against her skin, but he pushed away almost immediately.  He slid off the sofa and settled on the floor on his knees, and pushed her thighs apart.

And _oh God_ , he’d got better at this, had learned what she liked and how much pressure she needed and how to tease her and keep her just on the edge until she started to swear, and then he made her come, sucking on her clit and pressing three fingers into her cunt and _oh God_ why had she ever wanted to turn him away?

Her head was still spinning a minute later, and she sat up to see him already redressed and reaching for her laptop. She was sprawled half-naked on the sofa, sweating, and he looked as if he was ready to go out. 

She laughed, and he gave her a smug smile before turning back to the screen. She couldn’t think of anything to say, but it was fine. It didn’t matter. She stood and stretched and went to the bathroom to clean herself up, and went to bed.

*****

 

_15 July, 2013_

“So what’s his name?”

Molly nearly dropped her fork in surprise. “Sorry?”

“Your new man?” Sharon leaned forward and gave her a knowing smile. “Oh, come now, I know you, Mols, and I haven’t seen you looking so well-fucked in ages.”

Molly’s cheeks flushed, to her horror. She picked up her glass of chablis in an attempt to hide it, but there was nothing for it.

Sharon smoothed a blonde curl back behind her ear and looked smug. “He’s taking good care of you, whoever he is. Is he into really kinky things? I’ll bet he is.”

“Oh God, nothing like that!” Molly’s face warmed even more. “It’s just sex. Just… really fantastic sex.”

“How long have you been seeing him?”

“On and off for a few months. He’s…” She bit her lip, already regretting being drawn into this conversation. “He’s not from London, so we only see each other when he’s in the city. It’s not a regular thing.”

“Ooh, is he foreign? An Italian? God, I have a thing for Italian men.”

“No, he’s British and—” She paused to take a fortifying drink of wine. “He’s been in town for a week and we’ve… well, I guess it’s been a great week. But I don’t think it will last.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just… commitment isn’t his thing, and he’s got a lot going on with his… career. It’s just for fun, you know?”

“Well, when you’re done with him, can I borrow him?”

Molly’s face hardened before she could stop herself.

“I knew it!” Sharon gestured triumphantly with her fork. “You’re in love with him.”

“I’m not! It’s not like that at all.”

“Well, if you can have so much amazing sex that you practically glow in broad daylight, and still not fall for the bloke, you’re a stronger woman than I am.”

“Maybe I am.” Molly stuffed a forkful of pasta into her mouth and looked away. Sharon was wrong. She wasn’t in love with Sherlock. Falling for him would be the most idiotic thing she could possibly do, especially under these circumstances.

She swallowed, and nodded. “I am, I guess. Because it’s not about love. It’s just not.”

Sharon’s smile was smug. “Right.”

*****

 

 

_16 September, 2013_

She was late for work, and people walking out of the Underground station were moving ridiculously slowly. She dodged an elderly man and a mum with three small children in tow, and narrowly missed colliding with a group of teenaged girls. Ahead of her was a couple holding hands, strolling along as if they had no clue they were blocking traffic at the height of rush hour. She veered around them with more than a bit of annoyance.

“I’ll see you tonight, then,” the man said, and Molly froze. She knew that voice. She turned around and found herself face-to-face with John Watson. She hadn’t seen him since the funeral, and was surprised at how much older he looked. It had only been a year, but he looked at if he’d lived several years since then.

“John. Hi.”

“Molly!” He stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek, then stepped back with a genuine smile on his face. “It’s been ages.”

“It has, hasn’t it? How are you?”

“I’m fine, I really am. Oh, let me introduce you. This is Mary.”

Mary was petite and blonde, and couldn’t have been more different from the women John had dated in the past. She held out her hand and Molly took it. “It’s lovely to meet you! John’s told me all about you.”

“Nothing terribly embarrassing, I hope.”

John grinned. “Only the good stuff, I promise. How have you been?”

Molly hesitated a moment before plastering on a smile. What could she say? The most interesting thing in the last year of her life had been Sherlock, and… Did John know he was alive? If she knew, surely John did. Sherlock could be thoughtless and cruel, but he wouldn’t do that, would he?

No, he probably would. Of course he would.

He’d disappeared two months ago without a word.  He simply hadn’t been there when she came home one day, and that was it. She had no idea when or if she’d see him again. Something stirred in the pit of her stomach, something between anger and grief and despair. How had she let herself get so involved with him? She could have dated Robert, and then she would have had someone to have dinner with and go to the cinema with, and she wouldn’t be pathetically waiting alone with her cat, waiting for Sherlock to come back.

_Shit._

“I’m fine,” she said at last, though it must be painfully obvious that she wasn’t.  “And I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve got to run. I’m late for work.”

“Yes, of course, I understand. I’ll ring you soon, and we can meet for a drink and catch up properly.” John’s concerned expression was perfectly mirrored on Mary’s face.

“Yes, that would be lovely. I’ll… I’ll look forward to it.” Molly took two steps backward and bumped into a pensioner, who grumbled at her when she apologized. She turned back to John and Mary and waved in a way she hoped wasn’t too awkward. “Well, it was nice to see you! And to meet you, Mary.”

The two of them exchanged a worried glance, and Molly made herself turn around and walk away before she could make a complete fool of herself.

The sunlight outside was bright, and she paused to fumble for the sunglasses in her purse. She was ridiculously late for work now, and she needed to focus. She needed to forget about Sherlock Holmes once and for all, and get on with her life. John had done it, after all. So could she.

*****

 

_30 September, 2013_

Kevin pressed her back against the door and trailed his lips down her neck and whispered, “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this.”

Molly felt like purring. “Have you really?”

“Ever since the first time I saw you a year ago in the cafeteria. I thought to myself, that girl is probably a wildcat in the sack.”

Molly kissed him and trailed her hands down his back. She could be a wildcat, probably. She could certainly try. She squeezed his arse with both hands, and he grinned against her lips.

“Trying to give your neighbors a show?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He whimpered at that and kissed her again. Molly nearly smirked. Men could be so easy.  And Kevin was… well, Kevin had been flirting with her for ages. She’d ignored him until very recently, certain he wasn’t her type. And he still wasn’t, not really, but he was so very willing, and she needed to move on, after all.

“We should probably take this inside.” She pushed him back and fumbled in her purse for her keys, and giggled as he kept trying to pull her in for a kiss. She finally found the keys and turned around to unlock the door, and he pressed the length of his erection against her arse.

“God, I can’t wait to fuck you. You’re so fucking hot, you know that?”

She pressed her hips back against his. “Mmm, am I?”

“You know you are. I’ll bet your pussy feels amazing.”

Molly resisted the urge to laugh — she felt like she was in a porno. Who knew Kevin had a mouth like that? Maybe he could do more than talk dirty with it. She bit her lip at the thought.

She finally managed to open the door and they both tumbled in, only to stop at the sight of the man reclining on Molly’s sofa. It was Sherlock, but he looked so unlike himself that she might not have recognized him if she’d seen him on the street. His normally unkempt curls were combed back and coiffed, and he was dressed in a tight black t-shirt and jeans.

“What the fuck?” Keven said behind her, and Sherlock slid to his feet with a catlike smile.

He crossed to Molly and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Hello, darling. I take it the date went well, then?” He ignored Molly’s stunned expression and turned the full force of his gaze to Kevin.  “Oh, he’s much better looking than you said. This is going to be fun.” And then to Molly’s amazement, Sherlock pulled Kevin into a scorching kiss. Kevin seemed paralyzed for a long moment, but at last he pushed Sherlock away.

“What the fuck is going on?” Kevin looked back and forth between Molly and Sherlock. “Who is this bloke?”

Sherlock turned an incredulous expression to Molly. “You didn’t tell him? Oh, Mols, you naughty bunny!” He smirked and turned back to Kevin, who’d gone a bit pale.

Molly’s mind raced. “This is ah… my…”

Sherlock held out a hand. “I’m Daniel. I’m her fuck-buddy.”  Molly gaped at him, and he rolled his eyes. “She prefers _lover_ , but my term is more accurate.”

“You didn’t say you had a… I thought…” Kevin couldn’t seem to wrench his gaze away from Sherlock.

“Oh, he’s like a deer in the headlights, isn’t he?” Sherlock turned to Molly. “Maybe I should put the bondage gear away.”

“Ah, no, that’s…” Kevin began to inch toward the door. “Do you two do this a lot, then?”

Sherlock took a a step forward and put one hand on the door above Kevin’s head. Kevin looked as if he might wet his pants. “Yes. Well, fairly often, I suppose. We take turns choosing someone to bring home to play with us. It’s fair that way, you know. Though _I_ always warn them, so they know what they’re getting into.”

“Yeah, she left that bit out. Ah, so the thing is, I’m not into this kind of arrangement. Well, not with a bloke in the mix anyway.”

Sherlock leaned closer to him, and his voice became a rumble in his chest. “Are you sure? You won’t know the difference between my mouth and hers if you close your eyes.”

“Uh. Wow. I’m… I…” Kevin’s eyes were wide.

“ _Daniel!_ ” Molly managed through clenched teeth.

“Okay, fine, that’s not completely true. You’d know the difference — I give much better head than she does. But Molly is an absolute tiger with a strap-on. You won’t be able to sit for days, but it’ll be worth it, I promise.”

The remaining blood drained from Kevin’s face, and he stepped backwards so quickly he bumped into the catch-all table beside the door. “I’ve got to go, actually. I forgot I have a… thing, a thing I have to do tonight for my… for my mum, actually, and… right. Nice to meet you. See you at work, Molly.”

He ducked his head and opened the door, and sprinted down the corridor.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and leaned back against it with a smugly satisfied grin on his face.

Molly gaped at him for several seconds, until her anger finally built up to a point that she couldn’t contain it. She pressed her hands against her face.

“What the hell? Oh my God, you… arse! How could you do that?”

Oh, God - she wasn’t going to be able to face Kevin ever again. Why did it have to be someone she worked with? 

Sherlock’s sigh was long-suffering. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I’ve done you a favor, and we both know it.”

“A _favor_? How could any of that possibly be construed as a favor?”

“You were going to have sex with him, and it would have been awkward and disappointing.”

“And you think what you did was neither awkward nor disappointing?” 

“He wasn’t remotely your type.”

“Oh, for — how do you know?”

“Because _I_ _’m_ your type, Molly. I’d have thought that was obvious enough.”

Molly clenched her jaw. “Maybe you were once, but not anymore. My type is a man who is always there, whom I know will come home at night, whom I don’t have to hide and lie about because everyone else in the world thinks he’s dead. My type is a man who is actually capable of loving someone other than himself, and who doesn’t expect my world to revolve around him, just because it’s convenient! God, no wonder John couldn’t keep a girlfriend when you were around.”

Sherlock made a snorting sound. “John didn’t want a girlfriend; he wanted sex.”

“Right, of course! His life revolved around you, so what else could he possibly want? Sex was the only thing you couldn’t give him.”

“He didn’t want it — not from me. I would have done, but he…” Sherlock looked away. “It was easy enough for him to find women to sleep with. He didn’t care about any of them, so it didn’t matter. It was just sex, just a physical release. When they weren’t in bed, he could barely keep their names straight.”

Molly swallowed as a horrible thought occurred to her. “And what about this, us? Is that all it was? Just sex?”

“Yes, of course. You were desperate to have sex with me, and I wanted a place I could come to when I needed to be in London. It’s been a very convenient arrangement, and a far more pleasant one than I’d anticipated.”

Molly’s knees threatened to give out beneath her. She turned around and pressed her hands over her face, and tried to control her breathing. _Oh, God._ She was a fool, a complete fool.

“Molly?” The tone of Sherlock’s voice had changed, as if he’d finally realized something was wrong.

“Get out,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

“Molly—”

She whirled and shouted, “GET OUT! You fucking self-centered fuck! GO!”

He looked stunned, but he nodded and plucked his coat from the coat rack. A moment later, he was gone.

Molly stood still for a moment, trembling. It had all been an illusion, all of it. It wasn’t as if she’s expected him to fall in love with her, but she’d at least thought he wanted her. But he hadn’t — it had been repayment for her kindness, nothing more than a trade of services. It had meant nothing to him. _Nothing._

He knees finally gave out and she sank to the floor. Tears slipped down her cheeks and a sob escaped her lips, and _oh God_ — she was in love with him. Shed gone and done the worst possible thing, the thing she knew better than to ever do.

She’d let Sherlock Holmes into her heart.

*****

 

_1 October, 2013  
_

The flowers were on the kitchen table when she came home: a dozen red roses, wrapped in green paper, probably from the stall just down the street.  There was no card, but it was obvious who they were from. She sat at the table and stared at them for a long time. She ought to pick them up, to smell their fragrance, to clip the stems and put them in a vase. She could place them in the center of the table and see them every time she came into the room, and pretend they were from someone who loved her, and smile.

 

Instead, she let them wilt and fade, and never touched them.

A week later, they disappeared from the table without a trace.

*****

 

 

_20 October, 2013_

He was on the sofa when she opened the door, knees curled into his chest.

She closed the door behind her and sighed. “I’m going to change the locks soon. Surely Mycroft can help you find another place to go.”

He didn’t respond, just stared blankly at the wall opposite. She set her purse on the catch-all table and hung her coat on the hook, and sat on the sofa beside him. His hair was damp and he smelled of her shampoo.

“Sherlock—”

“Did you know about her?”

Molly frowned. “Know about who?”

“Mary?”

Molly inhaled smoothly, exhaled again. “Yes. I did.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“You generally notice everything before anyone can say a word. Yes, her name is Mary. She’s a lovely woman, a good match for him if you ask me.”

“I didn’t _ask_ you,” he spat, and Molly’s eyebrows rose.

“Oh, I see. You’ve been in love with him all this time, is that it? And now he’s gone and fallen in love with someone else rather than wait for you to inevitably rise from the dead, and you just can’t bear it?”

Sherlock gave her a scathing look. “I’m not in love with him.”

“Really? Because you’re acting like a lovesick fool.”

“So are you.”

Molly pressed her lips together. “But you know I’m in love with you, don’t you? You probably knew before I did.”

“Molly… I’m sorry. I know that I hurt you, and I regret it deeply. I do care about you, you know.”

“You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe you.”  Molly did her best to glare at him, but his curls flopped into his face and his blue eyes looked sad. It was like trying to be angry at the adorable puppy who just chewed your shoes.

“You must know that it meant more to me than just…” He shook his head. “I’ve always thought myself above base physical pleasures. They were an inconvenience, something to be dealt with efficiently and not dwelt upon. And at first, it was that way, with you.”

“I hope for your sake that the next word coming out of your mouth is _but_.”

“But,” he continued, pointedly, “I started thinking about you, even when I was away. I… I even masturbated thinking about you.”

“Really?” Molly couldn’t help smiling at that. She’d done the same, of course, but somehow couldn’t imagine him wanking in the shower, her name on his lips. _God_.

“And I thought that perhaps I could get it out of my system. So I stayed for two weeks and thought it would be enough.”

“The two weeks during which we had sex on every available surface?” Molly turned towards him and poked his thigh with one socked foot.

“But that only made it worse.”

“And then you stayed away for two months, probably hoping you’d get over it. But you didn’t, I take it?”

He turned to look at her. “No.”

She took a deep breath and looked away. She couldn’t let herself go down this path of thought right now. Her heart was far too fragile for anything like hope just yet. “So John, he… He’s moved on. He’s happy.”

Sherlock pressed his hands over his face in a way that was so human that she was taken aback for a moment. “How can he possibly be happy? He was supposed to wait, and when I came back, we would live in the flat on Baker Street and start solving cases again. But now, he’s probably going to move in with her, and marry her and have a dozen children, and it will never be the same.”

“You’re right, it won’t.”

He dropped his hands. “I investigated her, but there’s nothing. She’s a nurse at the hospital where he works, volunteers for the homeless, shines her fucking halo every evening.”

Molly gave him a long look. “Are you sure you’re not in love with him?”

“Yes. Not anymore, anyway.” His gaze met hers and his smile turned sad, and she understood.

“You did it all for him, and even though he doesn’t know, you’d still hoped he’d work it out. And he didn’t.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line and he looked away. For a moment, Molly thought he might cry.

“Oh, God. Look, I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll put the kettle on, all right?”

She stood, but he caught her hand in his and looked up at her.  She stared back at him, uncertain, and then he stood and cupped her face in his hands. He waited a moment more before he leaned forward and kissed her, softly. She closed her eyes and felt the brush of his lips against hers and, oh, how she’d missed this.

She shouldn’t trust him again. It was inevitable that he’d break her heart, and the closer she let him get, the worse it would be. It couldn’t possibly last — could it?  She couldn’t resist, though, not when he was here and in her arms and needing her so much, even if it was just for now.

She wound her arms around him and stood on her tiptoes and deepened the kiss, and felt his sigh of relief against her cheek. His hand threaded into her hair and he pulled her closer, and she wanted him, so much.

She buried her face against his neck and breathed, trying to calm herself. It wouldn’t do to drag him straight to the bedroom, after all. They needed to talk about this, to make sure they were on the same page, and to decide what would happen next. He was technically dead, after all, and it wasn’t like he could just pop in on John Watson and Greg Lestrade and say, “Not dead!” and give a news conference in front of 221B Baker Street and go back to the way it had been before. It was far more complicated than that.

“Thank you,” he whispered against her ear, and hugged her tightly against him.

She tilted her head up and kissed him again. Perhaps this part, though, could be simple. Perhaps.

*****

 

 

 _Epilogue: Many months later_

“What are you doing? Are you mad?”

Sherlock pulled her into the closet and pressed her back against the door. “Sshhh, someone will hear.”

“Of course they will! There’s an entire wedding party out there with dozens of people, and someone’s going to notice the best man has gone missing.”

“Not if we do this quickly, they won’t.”

Molly let her head fall back against the door. “Oh, for — I was joking about pulling you off into a dark corner for a blow job!”

“No, that’s not why I— wait, when did you say that?”

“In the car. I said you looked edible in that tuxedo and— what are you doing?”

“Looking for a place where one might hide a weapon.”

Molly reached out for him and found herself with a handful of his arse. He jumped in surprise, and she smirked. “Well, this is quite a turnabout, isn’t it?”  She slid her hand around to the front of his trousers and drew her fingertips up the length of his penis.

“Is that all you ever think about?” He pushed her hand away and moved further into the darkness. “Mycroft’s intelligence was clear. Someone at this wedding is a suspect in the plot to—”

The door opened behind them and light flooded in. Molly threw herself at Sherlock, who turned around just in time to catch her. They squinted at the figure in the doorway and made a show of straightening their clothing.

“I found them!” the young woman called over her shoulder. “All right you two, save the hanky panky in the closet for the reception. It’s time.”

Sherlock shot the woman an annoyed look and walked out of the closet. Molly grinned and gave her a salacious wink, and followed.

“Nice cover,” Sherlock said. He planted a quick kiss on her cheek.

“That’s what I’m here for. Look, there’s John. Go tell him how happy you are for him.”

“Pointless. He’ll know I’m lying and that you put me up to it.”

“And that’s exactly why you’re going to do it. He’ll understand, even if you don’t.”

Sherlock blinked at her. “Understand what?”

She rolled her eyes. “Just go, will you? I have to go tell the bride how beautiful she looks.”

“At least you won’t be lying.”

Molly grinned and caught his hand, and pulled him into a kiss. “I’m going to tell her you said that.”

Sherlock plastered on his very falsest smile. “Please do, dearest.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll look for anything suspicious along the way.”

“That’s my Molly.”  He turned and walked toward John, and she smiled after him.

It wasn’t a typical relationship by any stretch of the imagination, and she still wasn’t sure what would happen in the long run, but for now, she was _his Molly_. And she could live with that.

*****

  _~ fin ~_

 


End file.
